


doodles

by onanotherworld



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Doubt, Internal Monologue, M/M, Painting, a lil bit f fluff, a lil bit of angst, a lil bit of everything really, a lil bit of fluff, i do love him though, r is trying oh so hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:46:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1507697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onanotherworld/pseuds/onanotherworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire quietly ruminates on how his friends doodle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	doodles

Jehan has the tendency to draw little, delicate spirals when he’s bored, either that or words to obscure poetry Grantaire is likely to have never heard of. It fits his personality, swirling and kinda mysterious, and Grantaire likes that. He's all poetry and flowing words that make him wonder, make him feel elegant, surreal, almost.

He twirls his paintbrush in his hand and then sticks it behind his ear. He then decides to amble off to the coffee machine. It’s only three o’clock in the morning, plenty of the night left.

As Grantaire sits on the futon he calls his bed, sipping his scalding coffee and he ruminates.

Courfeyrac is childish, so his doodles tend to match that, he’s constantly drawing dicks over _everything_ \- especially Bahorel’s, his or Enjolras’ forehead after a party. But he always signs off with a ridiculous flourish, pretty much giving himself away. But the twinkle in Courfeyrac’s eyes as he's chased by an enraged Ami signals that, to him, getting caught is half the fun.

Grantaire loves Courfeyrac for this, he really does, even if it does leave him with a dick on his forehead.

Feuilly always as a pencil on his person somewhere, his fingers stained with as much graphite as Grantaire’s is stained with paint. His doodles are quieter, usually new designs for fans or mythical places that only he can see. He's more like Enjolras than one might think, but his passion is more silent, stealing through him like a night fog. 

Grantaire stretches one leg, wincing as it cracks painfully and complains from overuse before standing up, moving back to his studio and his painting.

He removes the paintbrush from behind his ear, dipping it in a pale, sky blue that’s always reminded him of glare on the ocean. He moves on autopilot across the canvas, painting becoming more real under his hands.

Bahorel’s doodles aren't quite actual things, but indistinct objects, often spewing fire or something close like it. His preferred colours are a dark purple, somewhere between good wine and a fading bruise. What he draws is pure Bahorel, all untamed wrath and undirected fire. 

Bossuet’s sketches are clumsy-just like him. They portray Mr. Men-like figures, and he jokes that he has a perpetual curse to be only able to draw Mr. Bump, which brings a smile to eveyone’s face, even Grantaire’s, deep in his corner. Or, he creates smiley faces with out of proportion grinning mouths that never fail to make him grin right back.

Grantaire shifts colour, this time to a deep, rich brown, carefully washing his brush in the water, then dipping it in his palette of colours. He coughs, bringing his mug to his mouth for a sip. 

Joly’s are most likely medical terms or anatomy, happily copying Da Vinci and explaining it to whomever cares to listen. He then proceeds to point out every little feature on your own body too, poking and tickling until he’s a giggling wreck on the floor and Enjolras’ mouth is turned down at the corners.

Grantaire stands back for a second, examining his work. He find it lacking. He scrubs one edge with turpentine, before refilling it with more suiting shades.

Musichetta is warmth, and draws flames, leaping, twisting, curling, you name it, she's drawn it. She draws everything, from a chair on the floor, to a drumstick on the edge of a cymbal. Her colours are probably more like chocolate, smooth.

And then there’s Éponine, who sketches violence and guns and war. She's had a harder life than she really deserves. Every gun she draws pains her, and her mouth goes tight while Grantaire watches, and he wishes he could do something, but he can't. So he watches.

Sighing, Grantaire scratches one leg with his foot, balancing, withdrawing a thinner brush from the giant mat that is his hair. 

Marius’ are happy, all chibi puppies and rainbows, with faces grinning goofily up at you. Sometimes, he has the perchance to draw eyes, big blue ones that Grantaire swears he could drown in. Marius is good at doodling eyes. 

Cosette is a natural born doodler, a graffiti artist if ever there was one, stupid slogans to this and that, and hipster quotes that leave you contemplating existence, at odds with her pale, slight appearance. Cosette is Grantaire’s favourite to watch draw, and her quick, clever hands move on the page and a penguin appears, with a strange little speech bubble to match. She's gutsy and brave, and Grantaire loves her for that.

He tosses the brush down, fuming, stomping from the room. This painting is not turning out like he would have hoped. Grantaire sits for a few minutes, before the manic, restless energy makes itself known in the twitching of his fingers.

He gives up and goes back to the painting, flicking gold on his face in his haste. He thinks, still, at the back of his mind on his friends.

Combeferre’s doodles are moths, an arch of a graceful wing, or the lazy movement of an antennae. He may not be as open, as friendly, as extroverted as Courfeyrac or Bahorel, but nobody can mistake him for uncaring. The subtle passion he puts into his sketches and explanations are usually enough to convince even the strongest of skeptics (which, incidentally, it has).

The brush moves frantically against the canvas, red and gold splattering everywhere, Grantaire’s eyes going glazed as he goes into the zone where he and the painting only exist.

And Enjolras.

Out of all the Amis, Enjolras has always been the hardest to pin down. When he catches him with a pen r a pencil in his hand its either tapping against the surface or scribbling words against the sheet. But, from what Grantaire has seen, Enjolras draws scrolls, barricades and fire and revolution. He hadn't expected anything less from the man who all to often thought he was marble. He is like Bahorel, wrath and passion and blood, but he is more directed, more calm, more cruel, more cutting, more clever, more everything, than Bahorel could ever be. Grantaire doesn't mean this as a caveat for Bahorel, just that Enjolras is Enjolras, and for him, nobody will ever beat that.

Enjolras’ doodles aren't particularly good, they're average, and its the only thing that Enjolras has never excelled in. Grantaire knows it annoys him because he can hear him grind his teeth when he draws, irritated that he can't do better. 

What Grantaire wouldn't give to show him how to hold a pencil, how to push it across the page until it is just right, because what else is his degree in Fine Arts good for if not to help the righteous progress their fruitless causes?

He pants, tongue lolling like a dog’s, assessing his work. 

Grantaire’s brow pinches as he looks upon it, disappointed in it, and in himself. To him, it is not worth the canvas it’s on. 

He hooks a finger over one corner carelessly, tossing it against the wall, where it lands with a nasty-sounding _crack._ It’s worthless, much like himself. 

Grantaire sighs, rubbing a hand across his face, grabbing his mug of now cold coffee. He pours whiskey into it, making it generously Irish, flopping it on to his futon, flinging an arm across his eyes. 

He drinks his coffee and then sleeps in the light, as the sun rises over Paris.

In his studio, the painting of the Amis de l’ABC lies finished, and it’s stunning. What Grantaire doodles, if he ever does, is his friends, because what is a cynic with nobody to preach to? He needs a sounding board just as a revolutionary does, perhaps more, because people tend not to listen to what they don't want to hear. And his friends are is family, however he contradicts them or needles them, he's there for them and they’re there for him. 

Grantaire thinks he can't capture their vibrancy in his painting. But he continues to try, he can't express his feelings in words as Enjolras can, so he paints. But they never turn out right.

(And if Enjolras spots the painting as he hauls a drunken Grantaire home, mistaking the studio for his bedroom, and takes it to his apartment, frames it and hangs it upon the wall, well, that's nobody’s business but his.)

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING SNOWFLAKES I LOVE YOU ALL SO VERY MUCH
> 
> plus I don't have a beta so all mistakes are my own. Also it might seen i have an aversion to punctuation, but I wrote this in a rush, and then wanted to post it right away, I'll probs edit it tomorrow or something


End file.
